


A Love That I Can’t Win

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Infidelity, Infidelity, John in Denial About His Sexuality, Kissing, Love Triangles, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Season/Series 03, everyone is morally bankrupt, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John come to a tentative peace about their relationship.</p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic.</p><p>HEED THE TAGS because everyone is morally bankrupt in this fic.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number," a popular country song written by Harlan Howard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love That I Can’t Win

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse my errors, this fic is unbetaed.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win._

_~Heartaches by the Number_ by Harlan Howard. 

 

They’d been chased over rooftops by a little man with a poisoned dart and his sidekick. a gant, who now lay dead in an alley at the base of one of the buildings while the little person had been cuffed and stuffed into the back of a police cruiser. John gave Lestrade details for his report while Sherlock leaned against Lestrade’s car and smoked. Sherlock had been awake over thirty hours, since John had shared the pictures of pearls he’d received via email. He’d worked tirelessly to find the sender, a known jewel thief, because Sherlock was convinced that John was targeted by the same person - or people - who had drugged him and put him in a bonfire.

John wrapped it up with the Met and put a hand on Sherlock’s back to guide him to the corner. Luckily a cab pulled up just as they stepped up and John bundled Sherlock into the back. He’d intended to send Sherlock home in a cab then take the Tube to the suburbs, but when he saw how Sherlock laid his head on the back of the cab seat -something he never did, no matter how tired - John decided to see him back to Baker Street.

They hadn’t touched in two weeks. An uneasy peace had stretched between them and, being who they were, they didn’t talk about it. Sherlock continued to obsess over wedding details, conferring with Mary as if he were the maid of honor and not the best man. John continued to agree with any decision they made about the wedding because really, he didn’t have strong feelings one way or the other about any of it. But today, Sherlock scooted close to John and laid his head on John’s shoulder. John glanced sharply at the cab driver, but he was intent on the traffic and paid them no mind. Within minutes, Sherlock’s breathing evened out and more of his weight slumped against John.

John glanced at the cabbie again and saw that his eyes were still on the road ahead, so he turned his head and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair. Whatever product Sherlock had used almost three full days ago to keep his curls in check smelled heavenly, and underneath the earthy, warm scent of Sherlock’s body smelled even better. 

With another glance at the cabbie (still not paying any attention to his passengers), John took Sherlock’s hand in his. Reflexively, Sherlock’s fingers curled around his. 

After a brief debate with himself, and against his better judgement, John pulled out his mobile with his free hand and typed out a text to Mary one-thumbed to tell her he would be staying at Baker Street another night and he’d see her in the morning. He told himself he’d sleep in his old room, that he was just making sure Sherlock got home safe and then he might as well stay since it was late and he was tired. He didn’t believe a word of his own self talk.

Sherlock revived a little when John shook his shoulder as they pulled up to Baker Street. He sleepwalked to the door and stood docilely while John paid the cab fare then unlocked the front door. Automatically, Sherlock climbed the stairs and headed toward his chair. 

“Uh, no, Sherlock. Straight to bed with you.”

Sherlock mumbled a feeble attempt at resistance.

Again telling himself that he was just settling Sherlock in, John guided him through the kitchen and down the hall with a hand on Sherlock’s lower back. When they reached the bedroom, John eased the suit jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders and unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt with a clinical air. Next off were his trousers and socks, then John turned back the bedding so Sherlock could slip in. Sherlock settled in the center of the bed, on his side facing away from John, and tucked the covers to his chin.

John vacillated in the doorway. He could go upstairs or he could sleep on the sofa. Even as his conscious mind thought those options, John’s hands worked the top two buttons of his shirt open and jerked it over his head. Finally giving in to himself, John stripped his jeans and socks and slid into bed behind Sherlock. He barely had time to spoon Sherlock close before sleep overtook him.

 

John woke alone in Sherlock’s bed. He groaned and turned his face into the pillows, seeking Sherlock’s scent. What had he been thinking? Just a whiff of Sherlock’s smell and John was half-hard in his boxers. He thought to himself that this had been a monumentally bad idea.

His old dressing gown, the one he’d never liked and so left behind in the upstairs bedroom, was laid on the foot of the bed. John slipped it on went through the glass door to the loo. He decided while pissing that if he took a shower, he could delay the awkward meeting with Sherlock a little longer. He used the toothbrush he still kept in the medicine cabinet over the sink then took a long, hot shower.

Sherlock was curled up asleep in John’s old red armchair, wrapped in the tatty blanket they usually kept on the back of sofa, when John finally emerged from the bathroom. John crouched before him and just looked for a few minutes. Sherlock’s hair was damp, so he’d had a shower, but still unstyled, rather poofy and frizzy like it got without styling product. Sherlock’s face was pale, and there were lines John hadn’t noticed before. He was thinner, but more heavily muscled, since he came back from wherever it was he’d been to take out Moriarty's network. They’d never talked about it. When John tried to ask, Sherlock shut down and changed the subject. John now knew there were scars mapping Sherlock’s back, and he knew they hadn’t been there two years ago when Sherlock faked his suicide, but Sherlock had not said a word about them. John wanted to know. He wanted to know it all but had stopped asking when he saw how uncomfortable his questions made his best friend.

First John ran his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, then, when Sherlock didn’t rouse, he stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his fingertips. Sherlock hadn’t shaved and the dark stubble scratched against the pads of John’s fingers. Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled slightly.

“Good morning.” John was glad he’d brushed his teeth. The only ablution he hadn’t performed was shaving, since he didn’t have a razor in the Baker Street bathroom. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Sherlock smiled again and replied, voice like gravel, “I came out here to think.”

John knew he should draw back, make an inane comment about coffee and toast, return to the bathroom and put his dirty clothes back on. Any of these actions would have been the sane thing to do. But Sherlock looked so soft, his expression was so open, that John instead leaned in and kissed him softly. He withdrew after only a few seconds and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s with his eyes tightly closed.

“I wish I could be the type of person you want me to be.” John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. His forehead rolled against John’s. “No. You who you are. And I love you.”

John’s eyes were still closed. He drew a ragged breath. “I wish…”

Sherlock cut him off with a quiet “No.”

John opened his eyes in surprise when Sherlock stroked his cheek and wiped away the wetness there. Sherlock pushed his hands into John’s armpits and hauled him up into his lap and pressed John’s head against his shoulder. John squirmed a bit to get comfortable. He draped his legs over the arm of the chair and burrowed his face into the side of Sherlock’s neck. A small half-sigh, half-sob escaped his throat. Sherlock adjusted the afghan to cover them both.

They sat thus until long past the time Sherlock's legs went to sleep from John’s weight on his thighs and long past the time John realized he had a crick in his neck, silent and sad together. John finally opened his eyes and noted the late-morning sunlight spilling through the window. He sighed in regret and lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“I have an afternoon shift today. I have to go home and change.” John stood and pressed his fists into his lower back. He stretched, cracking his neck on both sides.

Sherlock sat forward, rubbing both hands along his thighs to try to tame the pins-and-needles in them. “You could always leave clothes here.”

John dropped his hands to his sides and stared levelly at Sherlock, who met his gaze. A wordless understanding passed between them. John understood what was on offer and accepted it with a small nod. “Yeah, good idea.”

Sherlock returned the smile. He stood and folded the afghan while John returned to the bathroom and dressed. He crossed the room to give John a kiss on the cheek when he headed out the door.


End file.
